And then I start thinking about this mass hallucination thing Shane likes to talk about. Like, it feels as though we’ve entered some other world, you know—the shit going on in the other parts of the world maybe didn’t happen—on board the ship, we passed through this mist and this rain and it was like we were going through something—a doorway or some shit like that—but maybe we were just coming out of a kind of collective dream—like we’re all nuts and we caught this sickness from Shane and it’s just this made up shit that don’t make no sense anyway.
And we drive on and on over the road—the sun setting behind us until we come to a lane off the side of the highway.
Shane’s like, This is it, we’re here, and the lane winds through the woods, the branches hanging low over the roof of the car and scraping the sides of the car, you know? And I’m thinking of these like skeleton hands reaching out for us and I can’t tell if they’re like trying to murder us or keep us safe, right?
Sometimes, things that seem like a bad omen at first really ain’t bad at all, but you never can tell.
And when we pull up to the house I see the white face of the house isn’t a face at all but more like a skull—some shitty skull drawing Shane might do when he’s stoned—and in one of the eyes I see, like, some man standing there looking out at us.
So the four of us get out of the car, and we’re shivering, man.
Shane with the eight pack of Wild Cat dangling from his fingers.
The wind cuts through me like a fucking fang or some shit.
I’m looking up at that eye in the skull but there’s nothing—it’s blackness.
It ain’t a house, it’s a fucking castle, man, legit.
It’s stone, and even in the dark you can see that the place is just crumbling into the ground, and I’m like, Welcome to some shitty 80s horror movie, right?
It’s, like, classic cheesy shit, but here we are, right? And if there’s one thing that’s true it’s that people who maybe think they’re about to die never really do—it’s too cliché, know what I mean? Unless they’re sick or committing suicide, I mean. Unless they’ve just found out their, like, cute boyfriend is a serial killer, and they’re like chained in some sex and torture and murder dungeon and next thing you know, you’re in the chili the boyfriend sells out the side window of his gas station.
Like, the world is one shitty-ass writer, but even the world doesn’t set you up so obviously as this, right?
Then the door opens, and we hear the sound of, like, a bolt-action getting loaded, and out comes this bigger version of Shane—a kind of horse face with a tuft of grey hair like wire—and I know just seeing him there like that—his smiling eyes are the worst things I’ve ever seen, man, like legit—I’m thinking this is one crazy-ass mother.
And I’m right.
I’ll have one of those beers, he says.
Later, after we eat a dinner of tinned beans—motherfucker’s been waiting for this end-of-the-world shit forever—he’s like happy about it, he leers at me and Brit in the lantern light—there’s a metric shit-ton of canned food in his pantry, like seriously, right—he’s saying to Shane like, Good thing for you your father is prepared, or whatever—like fuck you, man—he wants us to see his Radio Room, and I can see Shane is like scared about it because he knows that we know that his dad’s like bat-shit, right? Like totally bat-shit.
Legit—see the aforementioned dungeon, right?—and Shane’s dad is saying like, I know how to show these ladies a good time. Like, ugh, kill me, know what I mean?
The whole time, Carter is burrowing into me—kids are super intuitive, man.
He’s got his head right in between my boobs.
The one toy the poor guy has had this whole time is that chess piece Brit gave him, and it ain’t much good for cuddling but he’s clutching it so hard in his little paw I think he might shatter the thing, right?
Shane’s like, Okay, Dad, they’d love to see it.
Shane kinda looks over at me and his eyebrows are raised, right? Like maybe he’s embarrassed—fuck knows I’d be—and his face is like pleading with me or whatever. His big nostrils kinda flare.
Carter gets his face in there a little deeper.
His soft sweet little head smells dirty.
Like I said, Shane’s dad is bat-shit, man.
For real.
So he takes us down into the basement. The stairs are wooden and rotting away. You put your foot down and maybe it won’t hold you, you know? It’s dark and it’s musty of course, but there’s something else in the air too—it’s like this radio static that gets louder and louder the further down we get, and Carter is so freaked out it’s like he crawls right up into my arms and, for a sec there, he pushes his face into my neck, I think the step really will fall away, but it don’t.
The wood and the stonework, I like to think sometimes of the people who build things like this, right? Like houses and shit like that—but also everything else—nice big houses like this one, even if it’s about to fall apart—and how a hundred years ago a group of people built it and some rich dude like Shane’s dad buys it and shows it off or whatever—it’s like some ego trip—and the work that went into it—like, proof of what a lame-ass the rich guy is—is alive in the very walls and the floors and the roof and the windows and the everything.
I’m thinking of that, and feeling Carter in my arms so heavily—before I had him, people I knew always talked about how, like, it changed your life forever, and of how like profound it was, right?—and I was always like, Sure man, whatever—but then once it happens to you, you know what they mean—it’s like some secret book of knowledge or something, right?—like something Shane might talk about—which sounds ludicrous but it’s also True with a capital T—it’s like a painting that you are making only you can’t control it.
And that’s what the world’s like—like it’s history or some shit—but it’s also the present and the future, and as we are going down those steps into whatever’s down there under the ground—like it would be dumb of me to be thinking about, like, a crypt or something, but I am—I’m thinking of Shane’s dad and of Shane, right?—like how for me Carter is a beautiful painting being made every day right before my eyes, but for other people the future is something they wanna own or some shit like that—like, they want everything—the house the car the kid the lover—to just be an extension of themselves and that’s it and that’s, like, fucked or whatever.
It’s dark like I said, but there’s also this light I can see as we descend, and that static sound is loud, man, like legit loud—and usually I think of light as this good thing, like, the sun or life, right? But whatever it is about this place, that dim light that’s flickering down there is making me think of like cancer or some shit—like it’s a lame-ass analogy, but the light is like a rifle flare in the dark and the static is the hum of some murderer’s bioelectrical system—like the ominous sound of a trillion tiny jaws working away on you—it’s the sound of whatever the fuck makes Shane’s dad tick tick tick tick tick times forever.
On the last step, Shane and his dad ahead of me, Brit’s little footfalls on the steps behind, I start thinking of her—how she came into my life—like I’m closer to her than anyone—how like when Shane would be out beating the streets or whatever, how she’d make fun of him sometimes—like, she’d strut like he does and flare her nostrils because I guess she must know on some level how afraid he was of her—how like sometimes it felt like he only wanted us to talk about him, right? Like, if there was anything else—the most basic thing like getting harassed by some fucking dude on the bus—shit every girl in the universe deals with—he’d like insinuate himself somehow into it, right?—what’s your favorite colour? Number? Song? Writer?—we’d end up talking about him almost out of manners, you know?—like it was bad manners for us to talk about anything other than Shane—and anyway, he always said the same shit: his favourite writer was Eminem—but I still felt bad for him, and her too, and me and everyone else in the w
orld.
And I get that now, you know? I know, meeting his dad—it ain’t just the looks department, it’s the fragile ego department or something I guess and now here we are in the basement, and what do we see?
It’s some high-end stereo system but without the million-dollar speakers—just these like old-timey amps, right? Like, off of a gramophone or some ancient record player—like they kinda look like big brass horns or flowers or some shit like that, if you know what I’m saying. They look like the business end of a tuba or whatever where the notes come out and not the end you blow into, right?
And they’re connected to some very impressive looking radio—like a bunch of knobs and little digital displays of wavelengths are on there and there’s a desktop computer hooked up to it somehow and like a million pounds of cable on the floor.
It’s very scary, and like kinda total beauty, you know? Because there’s a cement floor, and I’m looking down at it, and then underneath the cement floor there’s something else, right? Like maybe a bomb shelter or some shit that Shane’s dad made—like right down there with the bones there’s a heart full of canned goods and like life or whatever—but maybe not, I dunno.
And as I’m looking at the floor, I see Shane’s feet—he’s wearing these steel-toe work-boot jobbies, and I’m like thinking to myself, like, I’ve been looking at these feet for the last several years and God I’m like kinda in love with them—like, I’ll miss seeing them, right?—and right now I’m kinda frightened for my life a little bit—like Shane and his dad are maybe both psychos—maybe all of us are—and it’s not like I’m into foot-play or something even though I am down with anything—but there’s something just then like totally sad and lovely about seeing his feet there on the floor like that—it’s the same kinda thing as when I would hear him brush his teeth before bed at night sometimes—I’m laying in bed waiting for him and hear him brush his teeth and maybe cough or some shit like that—maybe he takes a piss or whatever—and my heart is kinda crushed or something.
It happened here.
Back in ancient-history times, like a hundred years ago or some shit, this motherfucker was trying to send a wireless message right across the Atlantic.
And he did it—like he sent the letter S right across that motherfucker—I remember that because of my name, know what I mean?—the first wireless transmission in history—and the place he sent that shit was Cornwall, where my dad’s from—so this whole Radio Room shit my dad does—it’s like his hobby or whatever—this shit is connected to us.
But it’s deeper than that yo—deep as the ocean—because what my dad’s at in that basement is straight up outta the Marconi playbook—that’s dude’s name BTW: Marconi—that guy believed if you had the right kinda shit—like, sound equipment or whatever—you could theoretically and like literally listen to the past—fucked up—and he was like the real deal kinda scientist thing or whatever—and he thought this shit was possible.
That’s because sound waves don’t die—the particles continue to vibrate, like forever—same deal with light—it’s like thermodynamics, know what I mean?—and that’s what my dad wants because he wants to time travel, for real—or open a portal to some other world—he’s obsessed with the past, yo, seriously—he’s like a monarchist you know—fucker’d be happy if no one ever voted ever again.
It’s fucked up, G, because like, with his taxidermy and his drug smuggling and his gun running and his Radio Room, you know motherfucker thinks shit is more valuable dead than alive, know what I mean? Like no one made any money from some tarantula if it’s just been hanging out in the jungle all its life—like guns and bombs and drugs kill people—and that’s cream—that’s straight-up profit all the way—and that’s my dad, yo—that’s the motherfucker who made this world and then brought me into it.
So here’s the shit—the old man set up these big-ass fucking microphones up there where Marconi sent off that letter S, know what I mean? And there’s a live feed that comes into his Radio Room and that fucker spends ten hours a day just listening for voices in the static—he’s insane, but maybe he’s onto something—but if you twist your mind in the right way sometimes, you can trick yourself into hearing some weird shit in the noise and in the nothingness, because all you hear from the mics is like straight-up mist man—smoke, fog—it’s nothing, but it’s also not nothing, know what I mean by that?—and if you go up there and look out you see the very same shit—like just that dark ocean and the mist and it just goes on that way forever and ever.
So we’re standing in the Radio Room, and Dad’s watching us.
And for one sec, Dad totally looks like that homeless dude I spoke with outside the McD’s back in T Dot, you know?
I try to make my face still—dad’s eyes are warm and fierce—his face splits open with a smile—he’s still got the Lee-Enfield in his hands—fucker hasn’t put it down since we got here—ate his canned beans with it across his lap.
Ghosts, static, and a flickering bulb—no one says shit.
Dad taught me about the world—raised me right and tried to make a man of me.
This is the way the world is, and you got to do what’s right, know what I’m saying?
We all gotta do our duty.
Later that night, me in one room, and the girls in another—You’re under my roof, and under my rules—because I guess Brit and Nina assumed we’d sleep together like usual except not because that’s not how Dad rolls—like, he must think Brit is just our friend—and it’s like he don’t notice the bruises—he walks right into my room and says to me—Did you bring that skin job?
And I’m like, Yeah, here, and take it out of my bag and hand it over to him.
I can see by the way he’s holding it—fucking thing’s still wrapped in tinfoil like he asked—it’s like some serious shit going on here—like he’s holding a baby or some shit like that—and he unwraps it and drops the ball of tinfoil to the floor and is kinda caressing this Pine Marten thing and holding it around its neck—I realize then he ain’t caressing that sucker but is really slowly tearing its skin apart and inside that thing is some kinda gadget he fiddles with and he drops the dead thing’s skin to the floor.
Fucking Pine Marten just got one eye—and it’s looking at me—except not, because that bitch is dead, know what I’m saying?—it’s dead, just like all the rest of them are.
I watch his fingers on the gadget and something seems to snap into place—I can see Dad is getting kinda super emotional about it—his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching—and he glares at me—and then there’s this soft blue light on his face because the thing he’s holding in his hands has come to life and it’s a Bug, dawg, except not a bug but a thing by which you blow shit up—a detonator—I’ve seen this same shit on YouTube videos—and a kind of thrill rushes through me because here’s my dad sharing this moment with me—I really am his son.
And that’s when we hear the crash and boom coming up from the Radio Room.
Craig,
I get it—the outside world, right?—it’s bullshit. Because when the pain comes it's from the inside, from your very own heart, from the ones you love for really real. And you love me almost as much as you do the thoughts you used to have about the life you once had, and how happy you were.
I get it, baby, and it’s okay.
We were dumb to think we could be together in that special way.
But it was pure magic for a while, baby—and everything’s alright.
We’ve both got a new life in front of us now, don’t we?—and it’s really scary what has to happen and the way things have to go—but that’s just the way things play out sometimes, right?
I was reaching out for you tonight—it feels like so long since we last talked, you know?
I was laying here in bed—thinking of you and your heart and how cruel you are—I was frightened, baby—I kept thinking of the Radio Room down there in the basement, you know?
The static and the dim light—Shane’s dad down there,
waiting for a voice from the past or some shit like that—I got so angry and hateful and felt myself smile in the dark.
You’re gonna be okay, okay?
You’re meeting new people now, and you’re getting to do interesting things, and it doesn’t seem as bad as it did before and I’m grateful and proud that I was there to help you whenever you needed me, baby.
So I’m gonna get up from the bed.
I’m wearing this old white nightgown I found in the closet—it’s like a gift from you, baby— and it smells like mothballs and damp and lavender—and I’m a ghost in this thing, baby. I’m gonna haunt this place even though I haven’t died yet, you know?
And maybe that’s what makes me do the thing I’m gonna do—because I feel like I don’t matter very much—I’m hardly anything—but I do matter, don’t I, baby? And that’s because of you.
So here I am in a nightgown and bare feet, and I’ll take an oil-lamp that’s on the bedside table and I’m gonna go down the steps outside my room through the living room where there’s all these creepy animal heads mounted on the wall—a raptor with something in its claws behind a pane of glass—and I’ll be quiet, baby—I’ll be a little sparrow in an eave—holding a little flame in my hand, and weird shadows are up on the walls and I’ll go through the door into the basement and down the steps and I’ll be thinking of the moon and the constellations out there and up over us all—my world and yours right beside each other and nearly touching each other—and I’ll be listening to the static and seeing the light.
The world is so fucked up.
And the fucked-upedness is everywhere.
It’s in every particle, you know?
And I’ll throw the oil-lamp onto Shane’s dad’s fucked-up listening equipment and the whole thing will go off like a bomb.
Skeet Love Page 11